


Release the Pressure

by Clarice Chiara Sorcha (claricechiarasorcha)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Side Pilot Poe Dameron, Established Relationship, Hux is Not Nice, Jealousy, Kylo Ren Has Issues, M/M, Poe Needs A Fucking Break Okay, Poor Scene Etiquette, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 15:41:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8333203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claricechiarasorcha/pseuds/Clarice%20Chiara%20Sorcha
Summary: Poe Dameron came to the First Order years ago and rapidly became known as their best pilot. It was only natural he'd end up entangled -- in every way -- with their leading general....but Kylo Ren is always a spanner in everybody's works.ETA: First part is Poe/Hux, the second part is Hux bringing Kylo into the situation while both Poe and Kylo have Serious Doubts about it. Not that Hux cares. Because he's an asshole.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So: despite being a kylux writer, I watched _Ex Machina_ a few months back and fell down the gingerpilot hole. I've never quite managed to work out a proper idea to write, but I saw a picture of Poe in a First Order flight suit the other day and hell. I was lost. This is the story that resulted; it's shoddy as hell and kind of sloppy, but it's my first attempt with the pairing and we all gotta start somewhere.
> 
> Now, to talk myself out of writing that Poe/Hux with creepy!Kylo Lovecraftian AU I keep thinking about...
> 
> Also, this was totally inspired too by [the recent LEGO update](http://ezlebe.tumblr.com/tagged/favorite-new-announcement) that added Hux's increasingly bizarre public announcements to Starkiller Base. I'm never going to be over it.

The voice in his ear is a low and lovely thing, deeply imbued with a heat one might never find upon Starkiller – save in but select few places. This should not be one of them, but without conscious thought he leans back into its grasp. Yet his voice never once idles in its continuing words.

“…and remember: the Order is there for you, when the Republic never was, and never will be. Devote your lives to our cause, and we will give you lives worth the living.”

But Hux cannot repress the shiver that moves through him at the press of damp lips to the thinnest sliver of bare skin between jaw and high collar. His finger moves away from where he holds the broadcast channel open, then his whole hand snaps upward to flick at the ear of the man curving over the stiff back of his chair. But he’s quick, has always been as quick as his beloved starfighters, and is already well beyond range.

But with the pass of a predictable moment, he’s coming back in for a second run; even as Hux moves to resist his lips, he’s instead taking away the headset, hair left unbearably ruffled in the process. But before Hux can even think to raise his hand, to set it back in place: gloved hands move, dig deep to ruin everything quite beyond repair.

Hux closes his eyes – though hardly in surrender, for all he leans shameless into the strong-fingered caress. “This is far beyond standard protocol, I hope you know.”

Laughter rumbles close to his ear, more vibration than sound. “Fuck protocol.” And that too-clever tongue slips between generous lips, slides in filthy promise from the jugular vein to the corner of his jaw. “You’re off-duty now.”

There’s no need to angle his wrist or neck to confirm the time. “I most certainly am not.”

“Well, shall I switch it back on, then?” And that gloved hand moves forward, knowing and all too quick where it reaches for the open switch. “Shall I let everybody listen to what you do behind this desk?” He’s crowding the chair now, and for all the hard plasteel between them Hux can feel the heat radiating from his compact body. “Because, you see – _I’m_ off-duty, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Hux slaps his hand away from the control panel. “Don’t you dare.”

“Why not?” Teeth press against his neck now, bared by his bright grin. “Let’s show the people know how very much their beloved general _enjoys_ the benefits of life in the Order.”

Twisting in the chair, he turns, meets the dancing black gaze with his own. “And what benefits are these, exactly?”

“Free and constant access to the greatest pilots in the galaxy.” And his lips land upon his, but move only in words than in actual kiss. “Or just _the_ greatest, as it were,” he whispers, and his hand moves now for the space between half-opened thighs. “Do you want to tell them how loud I can make you scream, or shall I just show them?”

“I don’t think you’re following _protocol_ any more than he is, General.”

They both startle, turning too fast: Hux snaps to his feet while Dameron just barely keeps his own. They already know what they will see: lurking in the corner is a dark living shadow, masked face lined in too-bright silver. Hux had not had the slightest inkling the man was there during his speech. From the expression on Dameron’s face – somewhere between intrigue and irritation – he’d not noticed him upon arrival, either.

“Ren.” Hux speaks first, composed through long practice. “What are you doing in here?”

That damned helmet stares at him, the modulator silent to even the man’s breathing. Much as Hux hates to be goaded into first speech, he checks a sigh, speaks again; he will not draw this out any longer than necessary.

“If you wanted to use the broadcast system, you could have waited your turn _outside_.”

“Oh, _he_ gets a turn now, does he?” Commander Dameron asks, by now leaning back against the desk; one thrust upward of his chin, and the dark curls fall from his eyes. “Too bad I called you first.”

That engenders an odd noise from Ren; perhaps only his throat clearing, or some equally strangled sound. “The general is required elsewhere, Dameron.”

“Actually, he’s not,” Hux interrupts, not bothering to smooth the edges of his irritation; Ren’s head swivels unnaturally quick, the visor fixed upon him like the barrel of a blaster.

“You just said you were still on duty.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” And he tilts his wrist, gives the time only the most casual perusal. “As you say, I’m the _general_. Surely it’s a perk of the job, deciding the point at which I am done for the day.”

Even from behind that damned mask, Hux can feel Ren staring. He barely resists the urge to smirk back. Instead, he stands, sweeping up his greatcoat from where it had been hung neatly over his chair; only when its lines are long and straight does he retrieve his officer’s cap, setting it upon his head with a casual ease born of long habit. “Shall we, then, Commander Dameron?”

His eyes narrow, head tilting; then Dameron reaches forward, tucks a stray lock of hair back beneath stiff black fabric. “Better,” he offers, something critical still in those eyes for all Hux knows the laughter behind it; he rolls his eyes, turns away with a snort.

“Well, as long as _you’re_ satisfied, I suppose.”

Dameron, who has never passed a parade inspection in his entire First Order career, nods with righteous approval. But then, he had never needed to bother with such petty matters. His talents had always been so much more than anyone else’s.

“After you. _Sir_.”

Sweeping past, Hux casts one hand back towards the communication array at his back. “It’s all yours, Ren. But do try not to indoctrinate anybody with lectures about the Force; I’d rather have everyone alert and functional, than drowsy or outright asleep.”

“You don’t understand the Force.”

The reply had been predictable, rumbling and unimpressed. “Yes, well, I leave that to you,” Hux says, dangerously close to airy. “Good evening, Ren.”

Of course the man offers no answer. There’s nothing to be had from him save that blank-eyed stare of the visor – or at least, Hux knows there would be, if he’d turn around to look. Not that he does. He just lets the door slips closed and then they are walking together, quickstep down the corridor. They make an imposing pair, the general in parade uniform and the ace pilot still in his flightsuit. It gives him a flash of odd warmth to thinking that Dameron had heard Hux’s latest broadcast, and had immediately swept back in for one of his particularly flashy landings. And then had come to him fresh from the cockpit. Even if Ren _had_ been lurking in the background, unseen and unheard.

“I’m going to have to fuck him. Eventually,” he says, very sudden. “Just so you know.”

For all he snorts, Dameron doesn’t miss a step. “Fair enough.”

“Have you ever?”

A strange stiffness overtakes him, a quick and deep form of sudden hoarfrost. They’d known each other before, of course. But those days are never spoken of now, both by choice and by command; while Dameron had come to the Order long before Snoke had foisted his apprentice upon Hux, Ren’s arrival had changed many dynamics upon both base and star destroyer.

And now, Dameron takes a good deal of time to ponder an answer that does not get beyond a single syllable. “No.”

“Pity,” Hux says, and brushes at non-existent lint upon one pristine sleeve. “I’d rather like to know if he’s the clingy sort before I bother. I’d hate for him to get ideas.”

“He likely has _ideas_ already,” Dameron says, much darker than his easy temper would allow otherwise; Hux narrows his gaze.

“What makes you say that?”

But Dameron echoes Ren himself, of earlier; it’s only silence he has to offer, and he does it with his eyes fixed firmly forward.

“ _He’s_ the mindreader.” Hux can’t mask that odd hint of suspicion, doesn’t even want to. It’s often said the best pilots have some hint of the Force to them; apparently, it’s what allows them near-preternatural reflexes, and a sense of their ships that renders them almost extensions of their own minds and bodies. And then his irritation turns to something far more tangible. “Or has he just _said_ something to you?”

Dameron’s face remains still, a statue borne of burnished steel. “Ren doesn’t say anything to me.”

“Well, he’s not exactly a sterling conversationalist.” No smile results at the worlds, no crack or bend in his silent armour. And Hux purses his lips, voice kept carefully and carelessly light. “Does it bother you? That I want to fuck him?”

He snorts, for all he blinks once, twice, three times too fast. “I’ve seen underneath those robes, Hux. I know you have too. I’m not going to deny the appeal.”

Very few would, for all the attached personality would leave few willing to actually act upon any physical attraction. “But he’s not one to keep,” Hux muses. “I just need one good ride – maybe two, if he’ll keep his great paws to himself when he’s told.” Dameron’s still not offering any spoken comment, and Hux raises an eyebrow in something between challenge and careless observation. “Surely _you_ understand: that sometimes you just want to test fly all the ships in your fleet, even when you already have in your possession the one best suited to your talents.”

In a second Hux’s spine is compressed, his whole body forced up hard against the wall. Even as instinct tells him to reach for his blaster, to pull a thigh up and an elbow down, he laughs. Dark eyes stare up, and yet somehow stare him down for all their height difference.

“Oh, I _belong_ to you, do I?” Dameron demands, and Hux laughs, half-gasped around the fisting of his collar.

“Everybody on this base does,” he says, and then with exaggerated guile, “I’m your _general_.”

And Dameron lets Hux find his feet again, drawing back his hands; they’re still hard fat fists, at his sides. “Ren doesn’t belong to you,” he observes, almost cold. “But then, maybe that’s why you want him.”

Hux gives a careless little shrug. “Maybe it is.”

Dameron’s anger is a strange and beautiful thing: rarely seen, but only all the more beautiful for it. In that moment Hux catches half a breath, anticipates its arrival with easy glee – but then Dameron’s rolling his eyes, casting a hand back through his curls. “You’re worse than a corvid. Collecting all your little shiny things, hording them in some great cave, protected with fire and armour.” Then he turns, jerks his head down the thankfully empty corridor. “Come with me.”

“Are you _ordering_ me, Commander?” he asks, and does not move. Dameron, for his part, does not even look back to see if Hux hears his next words.

“Just making a suggestion, _General_.”

But he already knows where they are going. There are odd benefits to a base like Starkiller, and its geothermal deposits are one Hux personally appreciates most. Some of the cavern systems, with their natural hot pools, have been set aside for use by the ‘troopers, others by the officers. Hux himself has one that is solely his own, at least in practice if not in principle. It is reserved for the commander of Starkiller, and with Ren’s arrival technically it ought to be shared. But Hux had never seen Ren there. He’s never known if it’s to with Ren’s uncanny abilities, the man using them to avoid being at such strange cross-purposes with Hux, or if Ren simply has no interest. Either way, he is glad. It remains his space, for his indulgences.

But Dameron is not leading them there. When they leave the main hub, instead of heading towards the natural formations that construction has left largely intact, he veers away; he leads instead a tramping path through the thin covering of snow across the duracrete pavilions of Starkiller’s central command compound. The neat small buildings fade behind them, along with the barracks and officer’s quarters rising behind them.

They might have taken a speeder. For his part, Hux prefers to walk – as does Dameron himself, surprisingly. Hux cannot be sure why that is, given Dameron so often takes the smallest excuse to pilot anything that comes to hand. Hux knows his own reasons almost too well: he’d been raised principally upon star destroyers from the age of six, had ventured rarely off-ship even when deployed through the ranks. The cold, cutting air against his lungs is almost alien, something between pain and sharp undeniable pleasure. It’s not something he would care to partake in every day. But he’ll breathe it in deep here, and now: this, the taste of his precious weapon. Of the promise of their impending victory over the so-called Resistance.

 The officers’ steam rooms lie in a sprawling complex before them, built low and hard against one of the nearby cliffs; vented water vapours are piped to the specially constructed chambers for the downtime enjoyment of those entitled. The ‘troopers have their own shared facilities, but even here, within the officer’s domain, Hux has his own private chambers. In fact he’d initially contemplated constructing it closer to his own quarters, but had baulked at the unnecessary expense. There was something fortifying, besides, about walking back out into the chill air after – with skin still flushed and muscles languid and lazy.

His pass codes give them access all the way to the deepest chamber of them all. With security clearances locking out all other personnel, there are left alone, together. Dameron already moves about stripping himself bare, the planes of his naked back moving like tectonic shift as he bends over to undo his boots. Instead of mirroring the action – in a manner more refined than his, no doubt – Hux only watches.

Dameron glances up, one broad eyebrow arched over the coiled half-grin upon his lips. “Enjoying the view, General?”

He doesn’t need to say yes for both of them to know that he is. Dameron may not be Kylo Ren, may not be a great hulking body of lean broad muscle and ridiculous height, may not be in possession of over-sized hands and impossibly thick thighs. But he is a powerful creature, wide in the shoulders and narrow to the waist, darker skin taut and unscarred. Hux has long been drawn by the way he moves with careless grace, and a pilot’s easy awareness of the world around him. He’s also watched Dameron and Ren in the officer’s gym more than once, both of them tangled up in some pissing contest over weight training. He often finds it hard to remember who loses, given that it is Hux’s own vivid imagination that wins out most.

When Dameron turns, every motion of it is purposeful, from beginning to its end, which is a long stretch from hip to shoulder. His ass, rounded and ever so slightly canted back, begs for a hard spanking. The look he then casts back, sultry and simple, also invites a good slapping, one that Hux’s hand is now aching to give.

“I’m taking a shower,” he says, already slipping beyond the general’s reach. “Perhaps you’ll join me?”

Hux does so, though they never get much beyond a frantic minute or two of grinding hips and thighs. Much as they both might enjoy it, it is better to take one’s time about matters such as these. The shower might do for sloppy kisses and adolescent groping, but there is better yet still to be had.

On their way into the steam room, skin and hair but roughly and inadequately dried, Hux leads. With a damp towel laid upon one of the hard stone shelves, Hux moves to lie upon his back; while still half hard, he’s content to give himself over to the room’s principal purpose first. As a child of drear Arkanis, he has never been fond of heat nor damp. And yet he revels in this: the pebbling sweat across limbs, droplets of fine water gathering upon the soft pale hairs of arm and leg, hot iridescent pearls shimmering in the pale white light.

Dameron has not lain down. Seated across from Hux, leaning forward between opened thighs with hands clasped tight, he watches instead. The damp hair, dark and dripping, does not block his gaze: predatory and patient. As the moments pass, Hux extends a lazy hand. Dameron crosses to him without a word and then is down upon one knee, knuckles pressed to forehead as if knight to his king.

“Don’t be a fool,” Hux murmurs, slurred by the broken strength of languid muscles. “If you want to dedicate yourself to me, bring me your sword and not your servitude.”

His dark eyes are brilliant gleam as he looks up from beneath those impossibly long lashes. “I thought you preferred both?”

He takes his hand back, waves it upon the air without real direction. “I don’t need a slave in my bed.” Their eyes meet: his dark earth loam, Hux’s bright cold sky. “I like a bit more excitement than that.”

“I’ve noticed.” And Dameron’s leaning down, taking his lips before trailing down in wet sloppy passage to what lies between his thighs. He’s already hard, half-taken by the urge to buck up, to rock hard and harsh against him. But the heat mutes such instinct, stealing away its urgency. Instead Hux settles gladly for pushing up against the other man in slow and sinuous twist.

Such grinding brings delicious friction, even with the constant dampness between them: but it can never be quite enough. They linger constantly upon the edge of something, lips pressed together; the limning salt he finds there tastes rich and thick on his tongue. And then he’s rising up, chasing droplets of sweat from chin to temple. Four hands slide, never quite catching grip: of side, of waist, of hip, of ass; then Hux digs his nails in, and pushes his whole body upward.

A moment and a fierce brief struggle later, Dameron lies prone upon his back beneath even Hux’s slight weight, though his half-hooded eyes are all challenge. The lean legs have splayed open, hands lingering so high over his head so that his chest thrusts out, dusky nipples peaking in clear invitation.

Above the crown of his head, the dark hair is now stellate galaxy in reverse colouring, spiralling black against white; Hux’s fingers itch to curl and to _pull_ , even as he places palms on hard-muscled thighs, pressing them further apart. Having taken his own place there, Hux quirks an eyebrow at Dameron, and then turns immediately to his cock: a long and lovely thing, its taste a familiar and welcome delight. As his tongue moves first, followed by lips, and then the clenching heat of his throat, Hux’s own hardness remains a dull and welcome ache between his legs.

The lubricant, strategically placed upon a nearby shelf beside his own comm unit, is hardly difficult to find. Hux pulls off the cock before him for only a moment, slicking back wet hair before drizzling cool gel upon his fingers; before Dameron can protest his lack of stamina, his mouth returns to its work, this time with first two, then three fingers working into his ass. Dameron’s high flush has deepened, eyes nearly nothing more than black blown pupils when Hux pulls back, then pushes his own cock in. Again, there’s no rush to it – to any of it. It is a slow and lazy fuck, here in this private personal space between them.

And there’s no sense of time passing, of the relevance of the galaxy beyond their joined bodies; only when Dameron begins to clench, drawing him deeper, does Hux’s breath really begin to skip and miss. That’s what tips him over the edge – but it’s not a sudden fall. It’s not the usual ending of a hard and dirty rutting, as they’re wont to indulge upon in the hangars, or meeting rooms, or cramped heady little cockpits. This is more flying than falling, his release hitting low and cresting slow; it seems it should be over in a second as it always is, but it only grows, consumes, a tsunami wave approaching shore, buoyed higher by more power and amplitude with each passing second.

Dameron’s palm closes in tight circle around his own cock, thumb tripping over the head as he jerks himself in ragged sweeps. Hux’s own hand, distant as it feels from his still floating mind, moves down; with their fingers laced, he does the same, their eyes locked as he calls Dameron over the same edge he’d already taken headlong.

They lie together, Hux’s leaking half-limp dick still nestled inside: sweating, slick, wrapped around one another as if they’d never have any reason to part. A rich haze of satisfaction has settled over him, thicker and denser than even this humid air, and yet: it’s not enough. Not quite. Not _yet_. A perfectionist from early childhood, Hux had long ago concluded that satisfaction would never be in his nature. Not when there was more to be done. Not when he knew the answer to a question not even asked yet.

“Do you know,” he says, sudden, “that my wrist comm is completely waterproof?”

Below him, Dameron snorts, the sound scoffing enough to actually dislodge Hux from upon the broad expanse of his chest. “Well, you never go anywhere without it. I just assumed it was, because I can’t imagine _you_ replacing them after every snowstorm or steam session. Budgets, and all that.”

Though he first pokes him hard in the side for that, Hux still lets it pass. “I have an idea.” And he’s reaching over, snagging it from the low shelf; when he angles the slim band, Dameron is forced to blink upwards at the small screen. For a moment, his face is utterly still in the blue light, a pilot upon the verge of a split second decision that could doom the entire mission to utter failure.

“Poe,” Hux says, low, soft, “you didn’t honestly think I’d take that beast on _alone_ , did you?”

Dameron’s eyes turn to his, and turn searching. And then he blinks, and something between a scowl and a grin has him rolling his eyes, head now thrown back in high chuckling disgust. “I can’t believe you have _a direct line to the broadcast system_ from your wrist comm.”

“Well, I do get my inspiration at odd hours. It always pays to be prepared.” He’s rising, dick slipping free; he always stands for these things. And yet, even as he’s keying highest order security clearances, Dameron’s leaning forward in precarious reach to press a kiss to his stomach. Swatting him away proves no deterrent. “ _Stop_ that.”

One hand reaches out, callused fingers closed tight about a narrow hip. “You’re a general.” The other hand matches the motion, encourages Hux back towards him with no gentleness of motion at all. “Don’t you have the armies to make me?” And he chuckles, breath making his abdomen twitch and tremble beneath its heat. “Not that I see a single soldier of it, here. And now.”

As his nose nuzzles deep into the red-gold hair of his groin, Hux smothers a groan with well-practised ease. A moment later and he’s clicking on the live feed, clearing his throat, imbuing his voice with the deepest of high authority.

“Would Kylo Ren report _immediately_ to the officer’s steam rooms. It concerns most urgent matters of protocol.” His next gasp is barely smothered. “That is all.”

Letting Hux’s cock pop free of his lips in a stretching web of spit and pre-come, Dameron looks up with devilish grin. “No, it’s not all.”

Then he’s swallowing his cock down again, leaving Hux to lean back, his last rational thought consisting of little more than the vague hope that he’d turned the comm off. But Dameron is right – it will not be all, indeed. Not when there is still so much satisfaction yet to seek out.


End file.
